


Fire Escapes

by Elpie (Horribibble)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Falling In Love, Halward Pavus' A+ Parenting, M/M, Neighbors, Protective Varric, Varric Tethras Writes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-08-07 17:21:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7723153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Horribibble/pseuds/Elpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every night Varric wakes up, makes a mug of the wickedly strong herbal tea Merrill blended for him, and sits on the window seat to stare out at the murky blue dark of the Kirkwall sky.</p><p>He lets the earthy flavor sit heavy on his tongue and in his throat, and he taps away at the keys, and he loses himself to the story.</p><p>Unless 7A’s getting laid again.</p><p>- </p><p>In which Varric Tethras falls in love (completely accidentally) with the 'vint upstairs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fire Escapes

**Author's Note:**

> I literally wrote this thing this morning after the bringing it up in the Assquisition Discord.  
> I have a physical _need_ for Varrian. 
> 
> T-T
> 
> The Writing Playlist:  
>  _Maps_ \- Emancipator  
>  _Heart_ \- Plini  
>  _Memories of a Distant Past Pt. 1_ \- SirensCeol  
>  _Anthem_ \- Emancipator

There’s a routine to everything. Some are just easier to spot than others.

Every night Varric wakes up, makes a mug of the wickedly strong herbal tea Merrill blended for him, and sits on the window seat to stare out at the murky blue dark of the Kirkwall sky.

He lets the earthy flavor sit heavy on his tongue and in his throat, and he taps away at the keys, and he loses himself to the story.

Unless 7A’s getting laid again.

There is, apparently, a _very_ active single ‘vint living directly upstairs from Varric’s cozy studio, at least judging by the sounds that slip through the floorboards. (He understands enough Tevene to get what’s being said, but he certainly didn’t learn it through any ‘proper’ channels.)

So every few nights, Varric gets up to write and cracks open the window. He lets himself be wrapped up in the savory sweet smells of the little Antivan joint tucked inside the neighboring building and listens to the dying wisps of passing traffic.

Then begins the thumping.

Sometimes it lasts longer than others.

Sometimes there’s enthusiastic groaning, and others Varric hears a hoarse ‘shut up’ or a ‘fucking slut’ in a myriad of voices and tones, and the pleasured sounds die off. Those seem to be the worst.

Fuck.

He doesn’t _want_ to be a creep.

Varric lets his head roll back and fall with a soft _thud_ against the casing and waits for the sounds of his neighbor being abandoned, night after night. He waits for the sound of one set of footsteps retreating, for the door to swing shut.

He waits for 7A, tired and momentarily satisfied (at least, Varric hopes so) to make his way to his own window sill and plant bare brown feet on the metal of the fire escape. He hears the fizzing click and flare of the lighter, and knows that everything is alright.

It feels kind of empty, but it’s alright.

And then one night, he hears that voice drift down from above.

“Did you enjoy the show?” 7A drawls, eyes fixed on the blacked out horizon. Varric can only vaguely make him out through the metal grating and the dark.

“Eh, I’d give it maybe a seven.”

“Really? I thought it was a five at best.”

“You really sell it, though.”

There’s a bark of laughter, less put together and more abruptly punched from the belly. “Flatterer. Have I been keeping you up?”

“Eh, I’m awake anyway. Night owl.”

“Mm. Still…”

“I’m not going to tell you how to live your life, so don’t worry about it.”

“I can’t tell you how _delightfully_ new it is to hear those words, Mr…?”

“Varric. If you ever need to borrow a cup of sugar…”

“Dorian.”

“Pleasure.”

“ _Always._ ”

-

And so the routine changes.

Some nights Varric sits by the window with no company but his own work, taps away long into the evening bringing vivid scenes from the fore of his mind onto the page. Some nights he’s more productive than others.

Dorian continues to bring men home, to allow them to maneuver him this way and that. He lets them maneuver him, fuck him, demand his silence or his noise, in turns.

But now, when they leave (and they all leave) he pads out to the fire escape and calls down to the window of 6A to see if Varric is still there.

Ordinarily, Varric would complain about being interrupted during his work. But this…?

He finds he doesn’t mind.

-

“Varric, how did you even settle in this shithole city in the first place?”

“It’s a messy story, and it tends to make people want to punch my brother in the face.”

“Is that so bad?”

“My brother’s dead, and I hate to disappoint people.”

“Ah.”

“What about you?”

“Would you believe me if I said I came for the excitement of the big city?”

“Not really. But I can guess.”

“I suppose you can.”

“I’m sorry.”

Dorian is quiet for the rest of the evening.

-

Towards the end of Fall, Dorian hisses as his feet hit the fire escape. “I don’t know how you stand it.”

“The noise?”

Dorian scoffs. “The _cold_ . I’ll have you know I’m a _treat_ to listen to.”

_Is that why half of your partners tell you to shut up?_

The thought makes Varric angry, and he’s not sure why.

“I run hot, but it’s important to invest in a decent coat.”

“Right.” Dorian sounds _tired._ “Invest.”

Varric realizes, with a tightening in his chest, that this is the sound of resignation.

Dorian withdraws early, voice trembling with the cold.

-

Two days later, there’s a package for Dorian at the office with a soft, lumpy sweater and an almost comically large coat bundled inside.

That night, there’s no thumping. Just a persistent padding of feet on the floor, a clattering like pots and pans. Varric sits on his window seat and listens to his neighbor existing with a strange warmth in his chest.

He listens, distantly, to the sound of the upstairs window opening and bare feet hitting the fire escape.

“Hey.” He calls, but stops short at the sound of more clanking footsteps on metal. He sees brown feet, followed by a frankly ridiculously patterned pair of pajama bottoms, and then...Dorian.

The ‘vint shifts nervously on his feet, odd little moustache curling up with his shy smile. He offers, of all things, a plate of cookies.

“I followed the instructions.” He says. “They can’t be too bad.”

Varric pats the open windowsill across from him, and Dorian curls into the space.

He doesn’t say _thank you_ , but Varric understands.

-

On nights when Dorian doesn’t come out to the fire escape, Varric’s typing is nearly frantic. He’s hit on a jag of inspiration, it seems. Suddenly in his mind’s eye, Arlon’s skin is darker, warm and glowing in the sunlight.

His eyelashes are longer, his lips fuller. When he speaks in Varric’s head, it’s less of a bold rumble and more of a purring drawl. His fingers fly over the keys as Arlon’s fingers force curls of unearthly fire from his once-mundane blade.

To defend…

To defend…

Varric doesn’t know.

The next time the thumping begins in 7A, his hands are burning, striking the keys with venom. Everything is on fire, and his skin is tight with the weight of it.

He’s never felt this before.

Never imagined a man stretched taut over the covers, head thrown back and neck bared. _Begging._ He wants to bite down, wants to cradle something in his hands.

The scene Varric writes is suddenly chaotic, confusing.

He’ll have to delete it later.

Varric looks at the words on his screen and pushes the laptop away with disgust, letting it thump off of his lap and onto the seat.

He’s hard.

_Fuck._

-

Dorian doesn’t come to the fire escape that night, but it’s just as well.

Varric doesn’t know what he’d say.

As it is, he aches.

He thinks he must be imagining the sound of muffled sobs through the ceiling.

-

The next time Dorian comes out, Varric is quiet for a long while.

Dorian doesn’t seem to mind.

He talks enough for both of them, voice subdued and rough. He speaks, if vaguely, about his sudden escape from home. The story tilts and segues and winds in ways that Varric is occasionally hard-pressed to follow, but he does.

He does and he aches, but he waits.

“I came here to get away, you know. But it still feels...sometimes it still feels as if my father won, somehow. As if he was right. I can’t be loved like this.”

“That’s bullshit.” Varric spits.

Dorian is quiet for a moment, then, “Will you tell me a story?”

“What kind?”

“One with a happy ending, please.”

So Varric clears his throat, and wraps his lips around the story of a brave prince with a quick tongue and a heavy heart, fighting to reach a tower that seems to always be just beyond the horizon.

They sit like that for hours:

Dorian one floor up, staring at the lights in the distance.

Varric, one floor down, pretending that his heart isn’t sore, and that he can’t hear it when Dorian starts to cry.

-

It’s always seemed too intrusive to take the stairs up to Dorian’s window.

The other man bridged the gap with his cookie offering, but to Varric it still seems as if taking those steps would be too much like forcing himself across the delicate balance they have so far.

So he doesn’t, until one night there’s a different sort of thud. And then a crash. He hears Dorian shout, then scream. _Hell_ no.

Varric nearly rips Bianca from her place of pride on the wall and books up the fire escape like a man possessed. The window is open, as if Dorian had meant to come sit with him again, but Dorian is on the floor, shaking and glaring up at the intruder.

The man is tall and broad-shouldered, and for a moment he wonders if this is one of Dorian’s trysts gone horribly wrong. But then he recognizes the hollowed cheeks and worn, damaged teeth that signal long-term lyrium abuse. A templar, likely a former one, standing over a mage in his own damn home.

He looks at Varric with watery, suspicious eyes and _growls_ at him. “Wasn’t paid to deal with no fuckin’ dwarf.” He grunts. “Just gettin this piece back home to daddy.”

“Not happening, sorry.” Varric growls. “This girl might be old-fashioned, but she’s not fucking _decorative._ ”

The ex-templar seems to take the hint well enough, rolling his eyes and lifting his hands in a sign for ‘peace’ even as he backs towards the door.

“Fuck.” Dorian whispers. Then louder, “ _Fuck!_ ”

He tries to concentrate power—likely a flame—in his palm, and fails.  

He slams a fist against the floor, shoulders shaking as Varric hurries to bolt the door and move a bookcase in front of it. He looks back at Dorian, then to the door again before trotting back to his side.

Varric shoulders Bianca, and reaches out with his free hand to run through Dorian’s hair. “C’mon,” He says. “You can stay at mine tonight.”

Dorian is all too eager to follow.

-

Varric stays up, settled in his usual perch by the window, tapping absently at the keys.

He listens for any sounds from upstairs, but there are none.

He listens for any hitch in Dorian’s breathing as he curls up in Varric’s bed, but there are none.

Dorian presses his face into Varric’s pillow, taking in the rich scent of leather and soap. He smiles into the soft fabric and lets himself be lulled to sleep by the sound of tapping fingers and soft sighs.

-

They speak to Aveline, who promises to keep an eye out in the neighborhood, and to lend her support should the worst happen. They speak to Bull in 7C, who promises to listen carefully and bust heads if necessary.

They speak to each other.

Dorian is hesitant, at first, to invade Varric’s space, and talks at length about every little thing he means to do as if waiting to be denied permission.

“Dorian.” Varric huffs. “You know it’s okay, right?”

“What is?”

Varric shakes his head, removes his reading glasses, and turns to smile at the fidgeting man. “I want you here.”

Dorian stares at him, not quite able to process the information at first. But the smile that splits his face is quick and easy, like a child receiving praise, irrepressible.

He makes enough tea for both of them and won’t leave Varric be until he empties his cup.

“You need to stay warm,” He says.

Like drinking grass will help.

But he sits on the floor, back propped against Varric’s window seat, and lets him bounce ideas. Varric’s fingers twitch, unnoticed, at the closeness of his bare shoulder.

Dorian stays with Varric for three days before he feels safe enough to return to his apartment.

-

Varric stands in Dorian’s bedroom, taking his turn at shifting awkwardly on his feet. The air outside is bitingly cold with the first stirrings of real Fereldan winter, but still they took the fire escape.

Dorian stands beside him, both of them looking at his rumpled bedclothes, the coat that Varric gave him draped over his chair.

The next thing either man knows, they’re on the bed, pressed close together and sharing breath. Varric cradles Dorian’s face between his palms, laughing and pressing their foreheads together.

Dorian is soft beneath him, smooth and warm and content to let Varric do as he pleases. And it pleases Varric to make him come as many times as he possibly can.

His hands, big and calloused, if blunt-fingered, are heavy on Dorian’s skin, teasing and exploring at their leisure, even as the ‘vint begins to writhe. Varric brushes the pad of his thumb over a guiche piercing, drinking in the pitched whine as he lowers himself to mouth at that pretty cock.

Dorian’s long fingers card through his hair, gentle despite his desperation, and Varric lets him slide deeper and deeper, sinking into his throat.

“You’re so _good_ to me.” Dorian rasps, and Varric smiles around the thickness of his partner. He pulls up and rubs the head against the roof of his mouth, listening for the keening noise that echoes through him and down into his own aching dick.

He lets go with a wet pop, gazing up at a slightly confused Dorian. “What was that?”

“Don’t be an ass.”

“Would I do that to you?”

“I don’t know. You have the advantage here. You’ve heard what I like. I suppose I’ll just have to experiment with you.”

“Sounds like torture.”

“Mm,” Dorian smirks, tangling his leg with Varric’s and rocking shamelessly against him. “It _can_ be.”

-

In the aftermath, there’s a moment of uncertainty. Varric lets out a low, rumbling hum as Dorian’s cheek shifts against his chest. Grey eyes gaze intently into his own even as that pointy chin digs into muscle.

“I suppose…you don’t have far to go, if you want to leave.”

“Nah,” Varric says. “I’m all right here. You?”

“Usually around this time I have a date on my fire escape.”

“Huh. Guess you can’t keep him waiting.”

Varric tugs his pants back on and waits while Dorian wraps himself in a fluffy robe to stave off the chill. They sit in the open window sill, feet bare on the cold metal of the fire escape, and watch the snow begin to fall.

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for any mistakes, as this hasn't been beta'd. 
> 
> You can come scream with me on [tumblr.](http://anabundanceofstilinskis.tumblr.com/)


End file.
